TSfc35 






t/S 



P 




km^mm 



PS 635 ' ^ 
.29 
B113 

Copy 1 AMES' Series of 

iNDARD AHD imTOR LB.AMA. 

rns .>f». 7.";. 

Kc^ ,.^^ 



i 
m 

si 
m 



ADRIFT 



A TEMPERAUCa PLAY 



IX THREE ACTS 



CH:iRLES ll\ B:iBCOCK, M. Z>.. 

f 

wrni CA ssTOF nrj ra ctj:i7s, entra kce^ a kd Exrrs, rei.a ti vs 
I'O^jiTjoys at' Tin-: I'EHFoii.MEns oy tue>>tage, dH' 

H'JltlPTloyOECOSTlME, AND THE WHOLE OF 

THE STAGE BUSINESS, AS PEREOll^l- 

ED A T THE PJilNCIl'AL ANEH- 

ICAN AND Ex\GLISU 

TilEA TRES. 



CLYDE. nllK). 

A. 1) AME^, PCTJLrSilEU, 



&;^mw^^^^^wmw^/^'^^^m^\ 



JV^JF MILITARY ALLEGOBY. 



T'lie Spy of Atlanta. 

h srrand military allegory in C acts, by A. D. Ames and C. G. 
Bartlev, 14 male, ;i lemale characters, with as many supenuimary 
ladies and gents as the stage may aiford i-oom for. This great piay 
is founded on incidents which actually occured during the w'ar of 
thte Rebellion — it introduces Ohio's brave and gallant Mol'herson — 
the actual manner of his capture and death is shown. It abounds 
with the most beautiful tableaux, di'ill, marches, scenes upon the 
battle held, in Andersonville, etc., and is pronounced by the press 
and jmblio, the most successlul military' play ever produced. G. A. 
\{. I'osts, Military Companies and other organizations, who may 
wish something which will draw, should 2>rodace it. U may not be 
out of ])lace to add that this play with the incidents ol the death of 
the gallant McPherson, was written with the full consent of the 
General's brother, R. B. McPherson, since de.id, who fuliy spjiroved 
of it. Below will be found a synopsis of incidents, etc. 

SYNOPSIS OF INCIDEKTS. 

Act Ist. Home of Farmer Dalton. ''don't talk politics." Tlie dinner hour. 
News from Fort Sunii)ter, and call for 7."),00!J iae:i. Quarrelofnkl friends. 
"Tlioy hung truitors in former times." Oath of venijcanee. The iialriotie 
])utchinan. His wonderful story. Husband and wife. "Uo, and may God 
liless you." Litlle Willie. "Dot dos-" Tlie J)uk'hnian organizes a compa- 
ny. Parting of lovers, and "jjarling for ever." "Country lirst and love 
afterwards." Schneider, the Dutchman, and Iiis new company. He means 
business and shows liis "poys" that he understands military business. En- 
1, sting. Schneider and his company sign the rolls. Tlie Daltons. "Hus- 
band, must you go?" Duty. Lit Lie Willie. "Please, molher, may I go?" 
Presentation of the flag. Parting of loved ones. 

Act 2nd. Camp by night. The letter from liomo. Army duties. Songs 
and merriment. "Tenting on the old camp ground." Inspection of the 
regiment. Generals McPher.son and Sherman. Kews from Atlanta. A 
brave man required. The dangerous mission. Promise of promotion givi'ii 
by JlcPhersoii. Departure of tlie .sjiy. The Confederate camp. ("ajit. St. 
Clair's soli loijny. I'lotting. I'ete. The old Kegrois used ratlier rouglily. 
Father and son. The man who stutters so badly. The discovery. ".V s]>y!" 
"Do your worst, you cowanlly traitor." Pete makes himself lisefid. ".No 
chance of life." 'Thrilling taljlcau and capture of St. Clair. Escape of .St. 
Clair. The pursuit, tieiierals Mil hcrson and Sherman. Kews from ihe 
front, Mi:Plieison preparing for liatlle. I'iring on the left. "I must at once 
ascertain (he cause." The rebel squad. McPherson's danger. "Halt and 
surrender." The fatal .•<hot. "It is General Mel'heison ; you liave Idlled 
the best man in the Union .-Vrmy." 

Act :;d. I'cturn of the sjiy. Sherman hears ot the death of his friend. The 
enatny's lines in iiKJtion. The long roll and general eiigageini nt. 

.\rT-tth. liiittUfield by night. "Water! I am living f(ir tlie want of water." 
Little Willie. The traitor forgiven. Edwin and Willie are made prisoucrs. 
Thedisf iv,-:y, iiim ivm^vai oi iliiuatli uf vengenie. 

Act "ith. An Icim nv lie with all its horrors. Ilupe of being exchanged. The 
Jtistcnis of 1 rea 1. ."^t.Clair inloims Edwin of the ai rival of his wife. 
]'"i'ars of iofaimv, and praver.- to(iod I'm rea on lo know her. The maniac. 
"Oh, br ilhei-, diin't Villi kiiinv me'.'i I am your liruiher Willio." Maud ar- 
rives. Terror on lii-l'iolding lii'r luisl)an<l. "ile must know me." The i.io- 
turc. Tlie rocogailinn of the |)i<'liiro, am) "you aie — no I can not be wrong, 
vou are Maud, my wife, thank (fod." N'li liny of JSt. Clair. The iiv fi,r 
iiiead. Bra\ery of Willio. The I'lital slot, and death of the imivr'hov. 
Madnoss. Tlii/cursu. "Jioys, li-t us jiray that ihis may soon end.'' Tlie 
rescue. 

Aifiith. N'o\v> of the surrendi'r of'I.ee. Tlio nrw lovi'. The \:ii';in( clinir. 
llaiii)ines.-~ of Polo, llctnvn of tlir lioys. and joyful meeting of l,,\rii ontb.' 
Hummer's march, a:id beautiful talilraii. 



Price, 2.> cent.s per cup 



ADRIFT. 

A TEMPERMCB DRAMA, 



IN THREE ACTS; 



-BY- 



Charles VI. Ealjcock, M. D., 



to Tvliich is added, 

a discription of costumes, characters, entrances and exits; with flie stagd 
buBJness carelully marked, etc. Ct.rrectly printed from the 
author's own manuscript. • 



ST 



-—• <>»-^-^»<^''^ 



Entered acecrdhrg to act of Covgress, in (he year 1880, ly 

A.D.AMES, 
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 






CLYDE, OHIO, 

A. D. AMES, Publisher. 



ADBIFI. 



r 



^,£113 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

GEOEGE RENSHAW A Merchant 

DR. LANDER A traveling physician 

MAT SLY A man of mystery 

SHARP WIT A lawyer 

OLD JUPE A colored servant of Renshaw'a 

TIM O'REGAN A porter of a hotel 

MRS. RENSHAW Wife of George's 

ELLA Their daughter 

IDA MAY A sewing girl 

PHILLIS Wife of old Jupe 

Citizens and Pulice Officers. 



TIME— The present. 



COSTUMES— Modern, to suit the charactenu 



TMP92-008574 

TIME OP PERFORMANCE— One hour and thirty minutea. 



ADRIFT. 



ACT I. 
SCENE FIRST.— u4 street near the Brent House. 
Enter Dr. Lander l. folloxced by Tim 0' Regan carrying a traveler's saehel, 

Dr Lander. Where is your hotel ? 

J^'m. Jist in sight, sir. You can see it yonder, wid a big sign on H. 

Dr L. This place hes changed very much since I left it ten yejvrs ago. 
That hotel was not there when I lived here. 

Tim. It was not there at- all then, sir, for it was put up last year. 

Dr L. Who is that gentleman yonder ? I really ought to know him, for 
there is something familiar in his face. It may be one of my eld ac- 
quaintances. 

Tim. That is Mr. Renshaw, sir. 

Dr L. Renshaw ! Which one of them 7 It isn't George Renshaw 7 

Tim. That is the mon, sir, jist the same mon. 

Dr L. Son of the rich old Renshaw, who lived in the large brick house ? 

Tim. It is, indeed. 

Dr L. AVhat a difference ten years have made in him! He is well 
dressed too, and a sjilendid looking teUow. We were old cronies when I 
lived here. 1 must resume my acquaintance with him. I say, Pat 

Tim. That is not mj' name, sir. 

Dr L. What is it ihen, if you are so particular? 

Tim. Tim, your honor. 

Dr L. Well then, Tim, you may carry my sachel to the hotel, and 1 
will come myself, as soon as I have spoken with Mr. Renshaw. I see that 
he is coming this way. 

Tim. I will, sir. ^xit B. 

Dr L. How this place has improved I 1 would not have known k, if I 
had been set down here suddenly. I wonder if Alice Grey is marrkd yet. 
If ever a man loved a woman 1 loved her, but she jilted me, aiui 1 left on 
short notice. If she is not married, her mind may have changed with 
everything else here, and she may be willing to marry me by thie time. 
Yet she might have changed so in her looks, that I may not wish to mar- 
ry her, when I come to see her. But here comes George Renshaw, I won- 
der it he will know me. 

Enter George Lenshaw, r. 1 k. 

Een. (r. — aside) What is that stranger staling at me 80 for? 
Dr L. (i.. c.) Is your name Renshaw? 
Hen. {haughtily) That is my name, sir. 



4 ADRIFT. 

Dr L. George Rensh aw ? 
Ren. Yes, sir. 

Dr L. {holding out his hand) How do you do George? 
Ren. (r. c.) You have the advantage of me, sir. I don't kuow that 
I ever saw you before. 

Dr L. Oh, yes you have 1 Don't you remember John Lander? 
Ren. ] certainly ought to, for we were boys together. 
Dr L. Well, sir, I am John Lander. 

Ra\. Are you John Lander? You are the last man I should take for 
him. Ten years have made a great difference with your looks. 

Dr L. Reckon in the whiskers and the mustaches too, they help change 
a person's appearance. 

Ren. They have changed you most certainly. Well, I am glad to see 
you, John, and give you my liand now willingly, (they shake hands) Where 
have you been this long while? 

Dr L. Oh, I hiive been around the world. It would take a long time to 
tell where I have been. 

Ren. When I meet an old friend so, I am particular to learn his res- 
idence and occupation, then I will know where to place him. So you see, 
John, that is a polite hint lor you to tell me where you live now, and what 
you are doing. 

Dr L. I have been practicing medicine in St Louis, until withiu the 
past year. My health failed me, and I am traveling now, treating certain 
diseases. Happening to ct.me into this part of the country, I thought 1 
would stop here a few days, but more to see old friends than to show my 
skill In the healing art. 

Ren. That is right, John. I must call you John, even if you are a 
doctor. 

Dr L. You need not be at all particular, for I shall call you George, as 
I have always done. Old Jrienns should not stand on ceremouj', especially 
when they have been separated as long as we have been. 

Ren- M'ell, I can compromise the matter by calling you Doc, that will 
be showing some regard for your title. 

Dr L. I accede willingly to the compromise, (laughing) I see you are 
the same George Renshaw still. 

Ren. Yes, and follow the business my father did. 

Dr L. Whal ! is your fiither dead? I did not know it if he is, for I 
have not heard fiom this place tince I lelt. 

Ren. He died nearly ten years ago. 

Dr L. That must have been soon after 1 left. 

Ren. It was so. Doc, and when the old gentleman's estate was settled, I 
tiiok the store, and have been a merchant every since. 

Dr L. Got married of course, become a man of business, and followed 
in the footsteps of your paternal relative? 

Ban. Just so. Doc. Come, go home witti me to dinner, and get acquaint- 
ed wiih my wife ; she is always happy to entertain her husband's old 
friends After dinner we will take a drive around town in my carriage, sd 
you can seo what this place has grown to since you left. 

Dr L. I- accept your invitation with pleasure. But I must g» to the 
hotel first and see to my baggage, then I am yours for the rest of the day. 

Ren. Well, I will go right along with you. {they exit k. 



SCENE SECOND. — A parlor in Ren shaw's house, with elegant furniture, 
pictures hanging on the loa'lls, etc. 

Enter Rcnshaw and Lander, l. 

Ren. (r. c.) This is my home. Doc, and I am happy to welcome you to it. 
/))• Ti. (i,. c.) You have a [jleasant home here, George. 



ADRIFT. b 

Ren. It suits me. We commenced keeping house here soou after our 
marriage, and have lived here every since. But take a seat, and make 
yourself a*, home. {sets out chair. 

Dr L. I am glad to see you so pleasantly situated, George, and appreci- 
ate your welcome. 

Ren. The l.-steh-string, at my door, hnugs on the outside, and my friends 
will always be welcome. ^What's the use of standing, Doc? take a seat. 
I will go and call my wife. ^41 Je) He has no idea who she is, so great 
will be the surprise, when lie seeo iier. What a laugh we will have over it. 

[exit R. 1 E. 

Dr L. George has really a fine house here, and lives in style. It is just 
like him. He always wanted the best of everything, and his father has 
left him enough to gratify his tastes. This must be their parlor, and it'is 
splendidly furnished. Pictures on the walls too, and some of them very 
fine. 1 wonder what that is ? (looks at a picture l. 

Enter Mrs- Renshawfrom door, r. 3 e. 

3/rs R. Here I p.m, Gei rge, Biddy told me that you wanted to see me in 
the parlor. (Laiv er iurrts around, ivhen they both see each other and start. 

Dr L Alice Grey 1 

Mrs R. John Lander. 

Dr L. (aside) How came she here ? 

Mrs R. (aside) What, brought him here ? 

Dr L. You know me then, Alice? others do not ajijiear to recognize me, 
I have changed so. 

Mrs R. (laughwg) I should know John Lander in any guise or <iisguise. 

Dr L. George Renshaw did iiDt recognize me at first. 

Mrs R. Tou took me by surprise too, I did not know you were in town. 

Dr L. Well, lam really glad to see you, Alice, (oj/ering /lis havd) I 
offered yoti th's hand once as a lover, which you were not disposed io ac- 
cept. Novs', I present it as a friend, which you will accept I have Uvi doubt, 
after our long sefiaration. 

Mrs R. Certainh', sir. (receiving Lander's hand) You kiiow I t<ild you 
at cur last meeting, that I could esteem j'ou as a friend, thougli I did not 
Accept you as a iiusband. Anr' now 1 am haj:)py, not only to receive you 
as a friend, but to welcome you to our home. (shakes hands with Lander. 

Dr L. (aside) Our hotiie 1 What does she mean ? (disengaging his hand. 

Mrs R. Y'ou have seen Mr. Renshaw ? 

Dr L. Y'es, and find him the same impulsive and warm-hearted George 
Renshaw, as in days gone by. 

Mrs R. George has not changed any in that respect. 

Dr L. He invited me home to introduce me to his wife, but 1 did not 
expect to meet you here. 

Mrs R. (aside) 1 wonder if he doesn't know that I am George Renshaw's 
wife? 

Enter Renshaw, r. J e. 

Ren. Ah, here j'ou are, Alice ! I suppose you are happy to meet our old 
friend, John Lander, and have given him a welcome to our home, as 1 have 
done already. Now, Doc, vou know vvho my wife is. 

Dr L. Wile! 

Ren. Yes, wife of course. Y^ou don't stippose that she would be mis- 
tress of my home without being my wife? 

Dr L. Is Alice Grey your wife ? 

Re7i. She that was Alice Grey, is now Alice Renshaw. 

Dr L. Well, that is news to me ! 

Mrs R. Didn't you know it before, Mr. Lander? 

Dr L. Alice, I did not know that you were even married. 

Ren. Ha, ha, ha! That is a good one ! I thought you didn't know it, 
Doc, 30 I said nothing about it in order to supprise you. 



ADEIFT. 

Dr L. {sarcastically) And you have succeeded admirably. 

Mm R. (aside) Ah, that has offended him, I iear! George would no 
have said it, if he knew that I lefused John Lander before we were married. 

Hen We have all been boys and girls together, Doc. You were always 
a good friend to Alice and me, so will congratulate us on our union. 

Dr L. Oh cenainly, George, 1 congratulate you both, (aside) But with 
a curse instead nf a blessing. 

Mrs R. (tiynidly) I thank you for your good will, Mr. Lander. 

Ren. Yes, we loth do. Doc. (to Mrs. Rfnshaw) You made a mistake, 
wife, in calling him Mr. Lander. He has become a j^hysician since he left 
here, and is Dr. Lander now. 

Mrs R. Oh, I didn't know that ! I hope that Dr. Lander will excuse my 
blunder ? 

Dr L. Certainly, Mrs. Renshaw. No apology is necessary. How long 
have you been married? 

Mrs R. About nine years, Doctor. 

Dr L. (looking signijicantli/ at Mrs. Renshaw) The very next year after, I 
left here ! 

Mrs R. (confused) Ye — ye — yes, the j'ear after you left here, Doctor. 

Ben. Doc, you hadn't been gone more than six months before Alice and 

1 were man and wife. 

Dr L. (aside) It looks very much as though she jilted me for the sake 
of getting George Renshaw. 

Ren. What is more. Doc, we have a daughter eight years old. 

Dr L. Ah, George, such a treasure ought to make you hapjjyl 

Ren, It does make me happy, Doc, I couldn't spare her. It is our only 
child, but she makes a houseful. Ah, here she comes now I 

Enter Fhi/lis, leading Eila, v.. 3 K. 

PhU: Laws, massa George, Miss Ella heard you come, an' she wanted to 
see her pa. 

Ren. All right, Phillis, I am glad you brought her. 

PkU. Old Jupe said you had company, an' I'se afeer'd she might 'trude. 

Ren. No intrusion, Phillis, for 1 want thij gentleman to see her. 

Phil. De chile would come, an' I tole her to wait till dinner was ready, 
an' she might come wid me when I come to call yui: to dinner. So I fetch- 
ed her right along. 

Ren. 'rhen you came to call us to dinner, did you ? 

Phil De dinner is waitin', sah. 

Ren. We will come right along. 

Pkil. Den 1 goes an' gets de dinner on de table. (exit e. 3 b. 

Ren. (to Ella) Come here, Daisy. This is Dr. Lander, your lather's old 
playmate and your mother's friend. Go ana shake hands with him. 

(Lander holds out his hand to Ella, who advances and takes it. 

Ella. I'm glad to see my pa's old playmate. How do you do, sir? 

(shaking hands. 

Dr L. Very well, Miss Ella. How do you do yourself? 

(shaking hands again. 

Ella. 01), I'm pretty well. 

Ren. Ah, yuu are an angel, all but the wings I (snatches up Ella and 
kisses her) Well, Doc, we will go to dinner, (kisses Eila agam and puts her 
down) You wait on Mrs. Renshaw to the dining-room, and 1 will wait on 
Miss Renshaw. (exit r. 3 e. leading out Ella. 

Dr L. As I am to wait on the mother instead of the daughter, this will 
be ihe most proper mode of escort. (presenting his arm. 

Mrs R. (passiyig her arin through his) This seems to be the authorized 
mode under such circumstances. 

Dr L. And seems like old times. 

Mrs R. I am afraid George offended you a little while ago, Doctor. 

Dr L. What about ? 



ADRIFT. T 

Mrs R. Because he laughed eo rudely at your surprise to find me his 
wife. • 

J)r L. Oh, yes, it did touch me! but no matter now. 

Mrs R. I never told George that you were my suitor before he married 
me, so that is some excuse for his ill-timed merriment. 

Dr L. If he does noi know it, I would not tell him of it then. 

Mrs R. Well, that will probably be the better way. So we will proceed 
to the dining-room. {exit k. 3 k. 



SCENE THIRD. — A street before Renshaw's garden — Old Jupe stands 
looking ofi to the k. 

Jupe. I tell you what it is, boy, if you throw anudder stone at dem ap- 
ple trees ober in dis gsirden, you'll smell one ob de bonea ob ole hundred. 
{shaking his Jist) Ef I hab you here 1 come out dar, an' I knock bole ob 
your two eyes into de middle ob de fofe ob July next. Any way I tell yer 
fader ob you when I go home. I aint a goin' to hab boys stealin' massa 
George's apples, «n' ef I catch 'em stonin' de trees again, I'll give 'em fits. 
Guesa I'd better set down under de fence till dat boy goes away. 

{sits on ground beside the fence, begins to sing 
De chipmuck sat on a hickory limb. 

He winked rt me an' I winked at him; 
But soon I rouses up my pluck, 
Au' i knocks off' dat ole chipmuck. 

Enter Mat Sit/, l. 

Mat. I wonder where Ida is. A long, long time has she been adrift on 
the billows of life, and vainly have I steered my bnrk in search of her. Ah, 
why did she leave nie ? Better ask the question, why did I give her occa- 
sion to leave? Yet had she remained, would I have changed my course? 

Would not my insane obstinacy Oh, I cannot think of it 1 1 sometimes 

fear that I shall go crazy, and be in reality, the mad man which I endeavor 
to appear wherever I go. 

Jupe. {aside) Gorra might}*! de feller acts ciazy nufTnow, widout goin' 
^ar. 

Mat. I have tracked the villain to this place, and soon will have him 
Baiely handcufft'd, and on his Wiiy back to the scene of his crime. And now 
if I could only find my Ida, and take her back too in the fetters of matri- 
mony, would it not 

Jupe. {to Mat) I links dis ole nigger can tell you whar Miss Ida is. 

Mat. Ha! what voice is that? Who spoke then ? 

Jupe. It was dis nigger, down under d^ garden fence. 

Mat. {tur7iing arou7}d, discovers Old Jupe) What are you chattering 
about there, you old blackbird? 

Jupe. Ise chatterin' 'bout nuffin, sar. 

Mat. What were you doing then ? 

Juve. Ise only obscrvin.' 

Mat. Well, what were you in your wisdom observing, my sable Solomon? 

Jupe. My name isn't Staple Solomon, sar! , 

Mat. What is it then ? 

Jupe. Ise known in dis community as Ole Jupe. 

Mat. Well, j'ou are a mighty j)aniculnr individual. Old Jupe. Perhaps 
you would condescend to repeal what you were observing. You spoke the 
name of a^ long lost friend, and may possibly know her, so that you could 
tell me where she is. 

Jupe. Ise de gemman dat's willing to conderscend, sar. When you come 
just now, you axed whar Miss Ida wa^, au' I 'specLfully 'formed you, I 
knowed whar dat young lady is. 



8 ADRIFT. 

Mat. It cannot be my Ida. You may know some other Ida, but not the 
one I mean. Not the one adrift on the world's wide ocean, and through 
my own obstinate folly. 

Jupc. I knows nuffin 'bout dat, sar. All I know is, dat Miss Ida come 
from, de west wid massa George long time ago, and lib wid him ebber since. 

Mat. Who is niassa George ? 

Jupc. Massa George Rensh aw, sar. 

Mat. George Reushaw ? yes tliat is the name of the gentleman with 
whom they said that Ida came east. But I never could learn the jilace of 
his residence, 90 of course knew not where Ida was. \Vhere does George 
Renshawlive? 

Jiipe. lu dat big house dar. 

Mat. And you say there is a young lady living with him by the name 
of Ida? 

Jupc. Yes, sar, an' a nice gal she is too. She makes nuffin ob comin' to 
Bee Pliillis, (dat is my old waman) when she Itab de rheumatiz. An' she 
is berry kind to ebery body dat is sick and poor. i\liss Ida is de nicest 
kind ob a gal, sar. 

Mat. What is her other name besides Ida? 

Jape. I doesu't know, sar. I and Phillis call her Miss Ida. But de 
ladies dat comes to massa George's, alius calls her Miss May. 

Mat. Ida ! Miss May ! Put those three names together, and they make 
Miss Ida May. She must be my long lost Ida. 

Jape, {looking off e.) Dar coaies de carriage wid massa George an' de 
doctor. . 

Mat. {looking in the same direction) Yes, and they have alighted from 
the carriage, aud one of them beckons to you. 

Jupe. Gor a mighty! massa George wants old Jupe to put de hosa and 
carriage in de barn, 3C» dis nigger must scud. (runs out r. 

Mat. Yes, I see who massa George iias for company, and the less he 
has to do with such a fellow, the better it will be for him. It is doctor 
Lander, the traveling physician. lie is little aware who has followed him 
from St Louis, and watched his performances in every jilaoe, where he has 
8to[)ped between here and there. Neither docs he know wiio was on the 
train with him coming here, or who got off when he did and will watch 
him while he stays. But I must not forget that I pass for a crazy man, eo 
must keep up my character for such, until I bring the scoundrel to justice. 

{e:iiit h. 



SCENE FOURTU.— ^ street before the Brent Rouse. 

Eater Dr. Lander, l. 

Dr L. Well, I have dined with George Renshaw. We had our ride iu 
his carriage to see the improvements ot the place, and here I ani on my 
way back to the Brent House. George is a capital fellow, bi t he married 
Alice Grey. "I like not that," as lago says, lago! Now I think of it, our 
cases are parallel. Othello married the woman lago lo ed, and George 
has married the one I loved. But lago took his revi^nge by exciting Othel- 
lo's jealousy to such a pitch, that he murdered Desdemoua. Shall ! carry 
out the parallel, and play lago to tlie last act ? I might possibly arouse 
Georiie's suspicions of his wile by telling him ol our former intimacy, and I 
could pay her such little acts of courtesy, .is she would naturally return to 
the frieud of her husband, yet be of a nature to confirna his suspicions. It 
might lead to a separation, for good natured persons like George are ter- 
rible, when their suspicions get fully aroused. Would not Alice Grey get 
her pay then lor jilting John Lander? 



ADRIFT. 

Enter Sharptoit, h., and slapa Lander on the shoulder. 

Sharp. How is doctor Lander ? 

Dr L. (ruhbivg hi.H .shoulder) Gracious goodness 1 

Sharp. And goodness gracious 1 Why, man, what is the matter with yout 
You started up as though I had caught you plotting some mischiel. 

Jh- L. Why, Sharpwit, is that you? 

Sharp. '-Sharp is the word," as our set used tn say in StLouis. 

Dr L. That was so, especially when we were out on a bum. Where did 
you come from ? 

Sharp. From my office. 

Dr L. Your office? Where is that? 

Sharp. Three doors east of the Brent House, where it has been for a 
year .^ud a half. 

Dr L. Have you been practicing law here that length of time? 

Sharp. Every since I left StLouis, eighteen months ago. 

Dr L. Well, I have missed you for some time, but didn't know where 
you had gone. 

Sharp. When did you come to town ? 

Dr L. I came this morning. 

Sharp. Did you atop here at the Brent House ? 

Dr L. 1 did. 

Sharp. I board here myself, but I didn't see you at dinner. 

Dr L. I took dinner with George Renshaw. He lives in style, doesn't 
he? 

Sharp. He will not live in style much longer, if he does not mind hi» 
P's and Q'a. 

Dr L. Why so ? 

Sharp. George Renshaw has become so dissipated, that he is on the eve 
of bankruptcy. 

Dr L. Is that 80? 

Sharp, (.ladly) I am sorry to say that it is even so. 

Dr L. (laughmg) Why, Sharpwit. you show a great deal of sympathy 
for a lawyer. 

Sharp. Because I am a lawyer, it is no reason that I should be inhuman. 
George Renshaw is a noble fellow, and entitled to some compassion for his 
€rrf>rs. 

Dr L. Oh, you are not alone in sympathy for Renshaw ! I hope his 
financial embarrassment will not end in a failure. 

Sharp. His creditors have already taken legal measures against him, 
but allow him to continue in business and occupy his house, just so long as 
he keeps sober. I am their lawyer in this matter, and persuaded them to 
make ihis arrangement with Renshaw, that he might have a chance to do 
better. But the moment he gets intoxicated, I am instructed to close on 
him without delay. 

Dr L. And you will do so ? 

Sharp. 1 shall obey my instructions to the letter. 

Dr L. So if a person wished to ruin George Renshaw, all that is necessa- 
ry would be to get him drunk. 

Sharp, (sneeringly) Certainly, if that could be any person's motive. 
Do you think of getting him drunk? 

Dr L. (aside) Curse the fellow, I wonder if he suspects me 1 He is as 
sharp and keen-witted as ever. 

Enter Tim. O'Rcgan, L. 

Sharp, {making a mock bow) Ha, here comes my occasional mercury, 
rigbt from Cork ! The top of the morning to you, Paddy. 

Tim. Yer jist the mon I'm looking for, Misther Sharpwhit, leaving all 
jokes asiae. 

Sharp. And what will you have, Paddy, now you've found me ? 



10 • ADRIFT. 

TVm. A gintleman wants to see ye. 

Sharp. Why didn't you send him to my office ? 

Tim. He went to your office, sir, but didn't find ye. 

Sharp. And where is he now ? 

Tim. He is in the Brent House here, waiting for ye. I told bim I'd look 
for ye, he was iu such a hurry to see ye. 

Sharp. I will go and see bim at once then. Doctor, excuse me, I will 
see you again. {exit Sharptoit and Tim 0' Began, r. 

Dr L. Somehow I was always afraid of that Sharpwit. He is so keen to 
penetrate a person's motives, yet so blunt to speak out his conjectures, that 
it seems like exposing what you wish to keep a secret. But 1 thank him 
for telling me about George Renshaw, and he may rely upon it th.it 1 will 
get George drunk, as soon as I can heve an opportunity. 1 have now found 
out how I can have my revenge on his wife without playing lago. {exit e. 

CURTAIN. 



ACT II. 

SCENE FIRST. — A street in front of a Store, fourth groovt.t. Mat Sly 
stands on a dry- goods box, with a book open in his hand, and is surrounded by 
a crowd of men, among whom are Old Jupc and Tim 0' Regan, 

Enter Henshawand Lander, l. 

Mat. Ho ! ye that are wise, come and hearken to my words I 

I>r L. What is going on here ? 

Ren. Ah, it is that crazy man 1 Let's stand here awhile, and we'll see 
some fun. 

Mat. Life is a great book, my friends, which every one should study. 
It is not a romance, though full of stories, for the stories are all true. Some 
are startling, and some are quiet. S<ime harrow the soul, and some are 
pleasing as the summer cloud. The table of contents is a catalogue of joys 
and woes, of hopes and fears. Happiness beams on one page, and misery 
darkens another, while every page is written by the pen of Time. Come, 
ye that are wise, and read the book of life. And as ye read, pause and 
ponder, ponder and pause 1 

Dr L. Who is that fellow, George? 

Ren, You have me now. Doc, for I don't know mysell. He is a crazy 
iellow, who has been around here two or three days. 

Dr L. In every place I stoped between here and St Louis I saw this 
same fellow, and now I lina him here. It looks very singular. 

Ren. It does look a little queer. Doc, that is a fact. 

Dr L. {aside) I hope it is no detective dogging me around. I must 
watch him. 

Mat. There is another book, which all may read, who will. It is the 
book of nature, and the letters are so plain, that no one need miss them. 

Tim. That's a fact! 

Jupe. What does you know 'bout it, Paddy from Cork ? 

Ttm. Whisht, you nagur I The gintleman is going to .«pake agin. 

Mat. The small words are the stones, the grass, the bushes and the Sow- 
ers. But the rocks and the hills, the rivers and the valleys, the plains and 
the mountains, are the large words in this book; and we have to study 
them some time, before we can understand or pronounce them. So in the 
book of life, children arc the short words, men and women the commou 
words, and persons of distinction are the words printed in caj)itals. 

Rrn. That is a good idea. Doc. He doesn't talk like a crazy man. 

Dr L. He talks more like a street preacher than anything elae. *'There 
it method in his madness." 



ADRIFT. 11 

Iten. I don't know how that is, but I like to hear the tellow talk. There 
is some sense in his lingo after all. 

Jupe. Wat book is dat massa holds in his hand ? 

Mat. 1 hold in my hand the book of life, my friends. Herein are re- 
corded crimes committed by j)erson9, who suppose that no one knows of 
thera but themselves. 

Dr L. (^atiidc) Plague on his book of life ! He may read something ia 
it that I have done. 

Tim. Do you find anything in there about nie, sir? 

Mat. I will turn to the index, and see if your name ia there, Tim 
O'Regan. 

Tim. Bejabers, and how did you know what my name is? 
Jupe. Gor a mighty, anybody niight know dat. You're alius 'round, 
whar folks ken see you, and 'quire who you is. Dar's no great trick in dat 
at all. 

Dr L. (laughing) The darkey is sharper than the paddy. 
Hen. Yes, Old Jupe is cute. An Irishman must rise early in the morn- 
ing to get ahead of him. 

Mat. I have found your name in the book of life, Tim O'Regan, and 
now listen. It is recorded on the six million, five thousand, four hundred 

and thirty-second page 

Jupe. Gor a mighty ! Who'd a thunk dat leetle book hab so many 
pages ? 

Mat. {to Old Jupe) Keep quiet, my sable hearer. I will do the talking. 
Txm. Yes, why the devil can't ye kape yer black tongue still, and let 
the mou spake? 

Mat. It is recorded on the page just cited, that Tim O'Regan went home 
drunk last Saturday night, that he whipjied his wife, tipped over the cradle 
and spilt out the baby {laughter in the crowd. 

Ren. That was an awful catastrophe, Doc, spilling out that baby. 

{thei/ both laugh. 
Mat. What have you got to say to that, Tim O'Regan ? 
Jape. I 'spect he's got nuffin to say. 
Tim. Be gorrah, and who towld ye that, sir? 

Jupe. Nobody told him, stupid 1 Didn't ye hear him read it out ob dat 
book ? 

Tim. And how the divil did it git in the book ? I didn't think any one 
knew it but Peggy, and she'd be the last one to tell of it, ler she knows 
she'd get another bating if she did. 

Mat. You should not drink af all. Tun O'Regan, then you would not do 
such things. P^or "wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging, and whosoever 
is deceived thereby is not wise." 

Dr L. I hope the fellow isn't going to give us a temperance lecture. 
Ren. If he is, I don't want to hear him. Let us go and take a glass of 
beer, 

Dr L. Yours truly, George, I am with you. {aside) Isn't this a lucky 
proposal? He has just opened the way for me to get him drunk without 
my seeking occasion. {exit Renshaw and Lander, h. Scene closes. 



SCEKE SECOND. — A street in front of a drinking saloon, second grooves. 

Enter Sharpwit l., and goes c, stands hejore the door, looking into the saloon. 

Sharp. These screens are very convenient for tipplers to skulk behind, 
when they want to take their tea. But they do not p.-event those passing 
by from hearing the inmates of such a place. If they talk as loud as I hear 
George Renshaw talking in there now. He has forgotten hia promise to bis 
creditors, if he really is there. The voice rounds like hij, but it may not 
be Renshaw after all. {shifts his poaition before the door) Now 1 can look 



IJ ADRIFT. 

behind tlie screen, and sure enough Renshaw is at the bar. And who is 
it with him but doctor Lander? If they two touch glasses together, as I 
Bee them doing now, I know how it will end. A little will upset Renshaw, 
while Lander can drink like a fish, and appear none the worse for it. Well 
Renshaw knows the consequences if he gets drunk, and I shall not worry 
any more about him. 

Enter 1st Police Officer, in disguise, L. 

Ist Officer. Have you got track of him yet, Simpson ? 

fiAarp. You are mistaken in your man. My name does not happen to 
be Simpson. 

Ist Officer. So I discover, when I come to see your lace. Do you know, 
sir, where I could find this traveling doctor, that's lately come to town? 
I believe his name is Lander. 

Sharp. Yes, you can find him in this saloon here. He has taken a pa- 
tient in there to give him some medicine. 

1st Officer. Perhaps he'll take some of the same medicine himself. 
{laugking) It is an honest physiciiin, that will take his own medicine. 

Sharp. Doctor Lander is honest enough fur that. He will do it to en- 
courage his patient, if for no other purpose, (aside) And I fear that he 
has no pood purpose in visiting this saloon with George Renshaw. 

1st Officer. Well, I'll step in and see if the doctor is in here. There is a 
person in town, who is very anxious to see him. {exit in saljon. 

Sharp. I have not the least doubt of it, and that person is a detective 
like yourself. I have watched you and the man that came into town with 
you yesterday. I have also watched that crazy man, and am satisfied that 
he is not as insane as be pretends to be. If he is not a detective, and those 
two fellows are not police officers, then I am a Dutchman. But thu.t is none 
of my business. {exitvi. 

Rcnshaxo rushes out of the saloon. 

Ren. What spirit of evil has prompti ' me to do this? In my thought- 
lessness I invited Lander to drink a glass of beer with me for old acquaint- 
ance's sake, and that one glass has aroused my cursed appetite for strong 
drink, until I am even now on the verge of intoxication. Ah, there is no 
such thing as tampering with the intoxicating glass, but in total abstinence 
will be my only salvation 1 Can it be possible that I should forget so soon 
my promises to my creditors? If I e;et drunk again, tney will have no 
mercy on me, and I cannot blame them. I must get home without any 
one seeing me, and have a chance te sleep it off; then no one will be any 
the wiser, and I will be careful not to get into such a scrape again. 

Aa Renshaw goes out, l., he is met bi/ a second Police Officer, who stands and 
toatches him. 

Enter first Police Officer, from the saloon. 

1-st Officer. Hullo, Simpson, you've got around I 

Sd Officer. Have you found him ? 

l.ft Officer. He is in here holding some conversation with a queer looking 
customer. » 

2d Officer. Are you on the right track ? 

1st Officer. lam. But let us go where we will not be overheard, and 
where he cannot see us when he comes out. {they step one aide. 

£d Officer. Are you sure it is Tom Pool ? 

1st Officer. Just as sure as I know you to be James Simpson. 

Jh- L. (-within the fialoon) Hollo! what has become of Renshaw? 

1st Officer. That's his voice, he misses the fellow he's been drinking 
with, who came out of the saloon while he was talking. He'll be out soon. 

2d Officer. Let us watch here until he comes. {ihey watch awhile^ 

Unter Lander, from the saloon. Ist Officer indicates by signs to the other who 

Ziandcr is, and they follow him out unperceived, l. 



ADRIFT. 13. 

60BNE THIRD. — A street before a store, fourth grooves — HensAaia lying 
on tMe ground, b., dead drunk — Ella is kneeling by his aide, trying to mrovse 
Jkim. 

Ella. (B. ) Come, pa, wake up 1 jou muat not Bleep h«re on the groand, 
you will take cold. 

Enter Lander, L. 

J>r L. (i«) Hollo! what's here? Why, here's Renshaw now. He has 
probably started for home, and was too drunk to get there. I knew he 
was half seas over before he left, but I did not know that he was so drunk, 
as to fall down in the street. 

Ella. Come, pa, don't lie here 1 Get up and go home. 

J>r L. What child is that? It must be his little girl, his little Ella, who 
gave me such a pretty welcome to her father's house, when I took dinner 
there. 

Ella. 0, pa, do wake up and go home with me. {toeeps. 

Dr L. {approaching Ella) What are you doing here, sis? 

Ella. I'm trying to wake up my pa. 

Dr L. Is he asleep? 

Ella. lie's gone to sleep on the ground here^ and I'm afraid he'll take 
eold. {shakes Renshaw) He won't wake up. 

J>r L. You will not awaken him very soon. 

Ella. Why? He isn't dead, is he? 

Dr L. Yes, dead drunk. 

Ella. Drunk? My pa don't get drunk. He got tired, and lay down 
here, and went to sleep. 0, pa, pa 1 \weeps. 

Dr L. {aside) Probably the child never saw her father drunk before. 
I wish Alice Grey could see her husband lying drunk in the streets, and 
their child crying over him, while the lover she jilted is a spectator of the 
flcone. 

Ella. Pa, pa, do wake up ? 

Dr L. Sis, your pa is too sick to get up. Go and tell your ma to come 
here, and she will know what to do for him. (aside) Oh, wouldn't I like 
to have Alice Grey come here just now ? 

Ella. My ma is sick, and can't come here. 

Dr L. Well, then go home and tell your ma where your pa is, and she 
can send Old Jupe to bring him home, (aside) Wouldn't it gall Alice 
Grey's pride to see her husband brought home by a nigger 7 

Ella. 1 can't leave my pa. 

Dr L. I will stay and watch him while you are gone. 1 was yoor pa's 
•Id playmate when we were boys, you Know, and I'll he sore to take good 
eare of him. 

tUla. Will you ? Then I'll go, I won't be gone long. {eseit \.. 

Dr L. So far, so good. Now that Renshaw has got drunk, his store and 
house go for certain. Will not Alice Grey's pride have a lall ? Perhaps 
•he will wish that she had married John Lander instead of George Rensliaw. 
Ha. there is Sharpwit ! He has just turned the corner from anotrher street, 
and is coming with railroad speed in this direction. He will see Renshow 
lying drunk here, and must fulfill the instructions of Renshaw's creditors. 
It does seem as though some good devil was bringing around ^yery thing 
in accordance to ray wishes. 

Enter Sharpwit, l. 

Sharp. Doctor Lander, we meet again, (discovers Renshaw) Ha ! what 
have We here? George Renshaw lying drunk in the street I 1 am sorry J 

Dr L. What are you sorry about ? 

tiharp. To see the condition to which the love of strong drink hat 
brought a noble bquI. Sad indeed 1 Sad, sad I 



14 ADRIFT. 

Jir L. Yon seem to be in for a temperance lecture, Sharpwit. Tou used 
to take a horn yourself when you lived in St Louis. 

Sharp. And it was only when I lived iu St Louis. Dr. Lander. I never 
drank a drop of anything that would intoxicate, until I joined your eet 
after I came to St Louis. The habit began to grow upon me, and I soon 
discovered what a fascinating hold strong drink would fix upon those, who 
work with their brains as we are compelled to do in the professions. This 
I saw was the cause of so many doctors and lawyers becoming tipplers or 
drunkards, who might otlierwise fill honorable and useful stations in life, 
uhd 1 resolved not to add to the numbt-r. To get rid of my drinking com- 
panions I loft St Louis. I have not drank a drop of liquor since, and by 
God's help I never will. 

Dr L. Well, what do you propose to do in Renshaw's case now he's got 
drunk T Will you close on him according to orders ? 

Sharp. I shall fulfil the instructions of his creditors, and I hope it will 
be the means of his reform. 

DtL. I hope so too. George and I were bosom friends when 1 lived 
here. 

Sharp. Then I see no reason why you should cause his ruin, when you 
oome back here on a visit. 

Dr L. What do you mean ? {angrily. 

Skdrp. I mean just what I say. Dr. Lander, and there is no use in your 
getting angry, for I shall not scare worth a cent. I know what you wera 
in St Louis. There was none of our set that liked to take a nip quite so 
often as Dr. Lander. And when a person of such appetite meets with a 
friend, who has the habits of George Renshaw, they are more than likely to 
take al glass together for old acquaintance's sake, and it generally winds 
up in a spree. 

Dr L. Do you mean to insinuate that I got George Renshaw drunk ? 

{blustering. 

Sharp. You needn't put on airs with me, for I am hot a child. I saw 
^ou in a saloon drinking with George Renshaw 

Dr L. Well, he invited me to take a glass of beer with him. 

Shdrp. You were not obliged to accept of the invitation. And, if you 
are as good a friend to him as you profess to be, you would have refused 
after I told you what I did about him. You would not have encoura^d 
hiito in the way to ruin. 

Enter Old Jupe and Ella, u 

(/upe, Dar's massa George, flat as a dead possum. 

EUa. Yes, and he's still asleep. 

Jupe. {a.'iide) Blessed chile ! she don't know what kind ob a sleep her 
fadder's in, but I won't tell her. Dis isn't de fust time nudder. 

Sharp. You had better wake him up, Jui)e, and take him home. 

Jupe, Dat's jist what I'se come fur, massa Sharpwit. 

Ella, I couldn't wake him up. 

Jupe. 1. guess dis ole nigger can wako him up. {shakes Renshaw until 
he awakes) Come, massa George, get up an' go home. 

Menshato rises on one elbow and looks around — Lander dodges out of his sight, 
then steals away unperceived by the rest. 

Hen. What — who — where am I? Oh, now I see — lying drunk in tlie 
etreetl I did not reach home then to sleep it off" before they knew it? Ha, 
Ella here too — my little daughter? She finds her f«ther in the gutter I I 
never thought it would come to this ! {falls back and we.(ps. 

Sharp. Take huld of that arm, Jupe, and I will take this, and we'll lead 
him home. It will not do to leave him here. 

Jupe. Dat am a fact, massa Shar|)wit. 

(they lift Eemhaw to his feet and lead him out \.. foUomedby Ella. 



ADBIFT. • .16 

SCENE FOURTH. — Sitting-room in Itenshaw's houxe. A table in the C. 
with a chair at each end of the table. Ida May sits in the chair at e, of table 
sewing. 

Enter Renshaio, l, 

Ren. Adrift like a ship driven out of a harbor, to be tossed by the merci- 
less waves upon the ocean. 
Ida. What's adrift, George ? 

Ren. (discovers Ida) Ila, you here, Ida? I didn't know that any one 
■was near to overhear my complaints, 

Ida. You must not come then where I am, George, if you don't want me 
to listen to your soliloquies, (laughivg) This is my usual seat, when I use 
the needle, you know. 

Ren. There is no harm done if you should hear my soliloquies, Ida. 
We are sister's children, and yo\] are more like a sister than a cousin to me, 
80 Alice and I have never hesitated to bring you into our family confiden- 
ces. 

Ida. Well then, if our relationship j)lace8 us on such terms of confidence 
with each other, will my cousin George tell me what he means by talking 
to himself when he is alone, as he has done so olten lately ? For this is 
not the first time that I have heard you. Tell me what is adrift, like a 
ship driven out of its harbor. 

Ren. Myself, and the little bark I command, will soon be adrift. 
Ida. How can that happen, George, when you are in a prosperous buei- 
ness? 

Ren. (sadly) "Ay, there's the rub 1" 

Ida. There is something going wrong with you, George, and I have seen 
it for a long time. Sit down and let us talk it over. I can give ypu my 
sympathy, if nothing more; and sympathy is a cordial, that revives the 
drooping heart. 

Ren. You would be very different from what you had been, if you could 

not even give me good advice, Ida. {sits in chair at the other end of table. 

Ida. Well then, tell me what is the matter, so that I can give you some 

of my good advice. {looks at him with a smite. 

Ren. Your smile at any time is enough to revive a drooping heart. 0, 

Ida, you have been such a comfort to Alice and myself since you lived 

wilh us, and now to think of sendi'g you adiift {falters. 

Ida. Adrift, George? 1 cannot be more adrift than I have been for 
years, ihnugh you have harbored my bark for a 8eas<jn. I am a)i orphan, 
dejiending on my needle for a livelihood, but you have kindly given me a 

home 

Ren. {interrupting her) Say nothing about that, Ida 1 Do you suppose 
that I would see a female relative homeless and unprotected, while I wns 
rolling in wealth ? 

Ida. No, my dear cousin, it would not be like your noble self 1 Words 
cannot express my gratitude to you and to Alice for your kindness since 
I have been here. So tell your grateful cousin all your present troubles, if 
it is proper for her to inquire. 

Ren. 1 am a bankrupt, Ida! My store passed into other hands this 
very day. To-morrow my house and furniture will go too, and my wife 
and chihl will be turned adrift. {weeps. 

Ida. That is sad news indeed, George, and you have my deepest sym- 
pathy. 

Ren. I deserve no person's sympathy. Waste no tears over a wretch 
like me, but reserve your sympathy for the wife and child, whom I have 
deprived of a home. Oli, I alone am the guilty cause of the woes, that 
soon will alight upon them ! 

Idi. How are you the cause of their coming woes? Tell !ne frankly, 
my dear cousin. This is one of those cases where open confession is good 
for the soul. 



18 * ADRIFT. 

Ren. By my tippling, Ida, by my frequent sprees, by wine-drinking at 
my own table and at pa;tie3 ! These have gradually brought on unsteady 
habits and neglect of busino.'^s, until my goodly horitage is gone I I see it 
all when it is too late I And now you, cousin Ida, as well as my family, are 
turned adrift through a drunkard's folly 1 

{.imites his forehead, starts up, and paces the floor. 

Ida. This will not be the first time, that I have been turned adrift by 
such folly. It was by the obstinacy of one, who preferred the indulgence 
■of hii beastly appetite to my heart and hand, that I am a dependent on 
your kindness. 

Ren. You, Ida? I never knew that before ! 

{stops walking and stares at her in surprise. 

Ma. Because I have never told it to any one, for I never had the occa- 
sion. But now I will impart it, though it should expose a secret sorrow. 

Ren. Secret sorrow t No one ever supposed that you had sorrow of any 
■kind, you have always been so cheerful every since you lived with us. 

Ida, When you came west, and offered me a home if I would come east 
with you, it was not for the sake of a home that I complied, for I was earn- 
•ing a conifort;ible livelihool, was pleasantly situated among kind friends, 
flud needed not to make any change. 

Ren. What was it then that made you come, if I may not be deemed 
inquisitive? {sits down as be/ore. 

Idn. You remember, cousin George, that after both of my parents died, 
1 vrent to live with aunt Martha, where you found me. In that place was a 
rich young b'>nker, who happened to take a fancy to Ida May, the orphan. 
I ne«d not tell you, George, of the rich, dashing and accomplished young 
■ladies, daughters of the elite and wealthy of that town, who were proud to 
receave the young banker's attentions. 'N'either will I stop for particulars, 
but say that he passed all these by, and paid his attentions to the poor 
ttawing girl, niece of the poor but respectable widow Baldwin. 

Ren. A noble fellow! 

Ida. He was a noble fellow, George, and his kindness to the poor orphan 
won not only my gratitude, but what would naturally follow in a woman 
under such circumstances, my heart. So, wtien he at last surprised me 
with the offer of his hand, I willingly accepted it not only for the love 1 
bore him, but because I knew my love was as truthfully returned. 

Rom. What, then, sent you adrift? 

IJa. He loved the social glass, and would have his sprees. I tried to 
reform him, but with no avail. His obstinate folly led him on, until I saw 
him lying drunk near a saloon one day, when I gave him up in dispair. 
Thou it was that I accepted your offer to live with you, for that lit'-le vil- 
'la.ge was no longer the paradise it had been, (weeps, 

Ren. And now the same cursed folly will turn you adrift once more I 

I la. {w iping her eyes) Have you told your wife of this, George ? 

Ren. {falters) No, Ida, for I have not the courage to do it. 

Ida. Do j'ou intend to wait until the sale, and let it come upon her like 
H thunder-bolt ? That is unmanly as well as cruel. Come, let us go to- 
jEjcther, and we will break it gently to her. 

Ren. You are au angel, cousin Ida. {they exit r 



ACT III. 

SCENE FIRST. — A room in Old Ji/pe's house, third (jrooves. Mrs. Ren- 
iihaw is tyinq upon an old lounge, r., and weeping, while Phillis stands at a re 
^pect/ul distance watching her. 

Phil. Laws, missus, dar's no use a cryin'. You isn't de fust one dat's 
ebber been turned out o' house an' home. 

Mrs R. But, Phillis, to think that none of my old acquaintances invited 



ADRIFT. ir 

me home, and I should have lain all night in the streets, had it not been 

tor you. So unfriendly, so ungrateful, so cruel 

{she w interrupted hy her ovjn sobs. 

Phil. Nebber mind, honey, you wont hub lo lie in de streets, an' you 
wont starve nudiler. Ole Jupe nu' I'se laid up henps o' money we earnt o' 
you an' massa George, nn' yv)U iiu' massa George an' miss Ella shan't die 
fer want o' nuffin. So don't cry any more. 

Mrs R. You miHt not expect that we would live on you, Phillis. Yet 
what shall I do? What can Goorge do? Where shall we go? 

PhU. Go )iowheri;s, missus, bui stay right here. And when nil dc mon- 
ey's gone, Ole Jujie an' 1"11 work an' get more, (a knockiny wi.thout, l.) 
Dar. somebody Knookiir at de door. I'll go an' see who's come. Wipe 
your eyes, honey, an' don't let 'em know yoii'se been cryin'. {exit l. 2 e. 

Mrs R. Yesterday in a mansion, and today in a hovel. One day in 
affluence, the next day in pnvi-rty. What a change ! And all this in'l wo 
da\'s, two short days ! It seems like a dream, and the thoughts of it will 
make me crazy. To be reduced so suddenly from plenty to want— ^Oh, it is 
too much ! 

Buries hirface in her hands, and howing doivn upon the lounge, lies there 

and weeps. 

■ Enter Phil! is and Ida Mail, l. 2 E. 

Phil. Dnr's de bressed dnrlin', an(i cryin' cz if her heart would break, 
I'se been iryin" to comfort her, but what I says seems no account. May be 
you can say sumfin, dat'll make her feel better. Miss Ida. 

Ida. .Mrs. Renshaw ! 

Mrs R. {looking up, discovers Ida) Is that you, Ida.' You are sent 
adrift ton with the rest of us. 

Ida. That is nothing new to ino, as I have told you befure. 

Mrs R. But it is new to me, and I cannot endure it. 

Ida. Nonsense! Do you intend to give up, and weep over your mis- 
fortunes, without trying to do anything? Be a brave woman, Alice, and 
not a s.'.ild. 

Mrs R. Is that the sympathy you give to those who befriended you and 
gave you a home for years? I di(l not expect such ingratitude from'you. 

Ida. This is no ingratitude, my dear cousin. It is the love and gratitude- 
I feel towar is yon, that prom])ls me to arouse you from this repining help- 
lessness, and have vou meet tlie cliangea of life with a brave heart. Where 
is Mr. Ken^haw, Phillis? 

Phil. He's gone away wid Ole Jupe, an' Ella's gone wid him. Laws,, 
here comes de chile now! 

Enter EUa,h. 2 E, 

Ella. 0, ]\Iiss May, I am so glad to see you i {running to Ida May 

Ida. And I am- glad to see you. [kisses Ella) Alice, here is an incen- 
tive lor Vou to arouse vourself. You have something to do and care for in 
this child. 

Phil. Where has you bewi, MissElla? 

Eila. Oh, I've been where they aie sawing wi oil. 

Phil. Who's you been to see SdW wooil, chile? 

Ella. Old Jujie is sawing Wood for .Mr Benton, and my pa split.s it as 
fast as he saws it, and he does it roal nico \o(k 

Mrs R. Is your latiier working with Old Jupe, Ella ? Working at Mr. 
Brenton'.s? Are you sure? 

Ella. Yes, he is, ma, for I just came from tliere. 

Mrs R. Good heavens! lias it conic to this, that George Renshaw is 
cutting wood? 

Ida. Is there any disgrace in it, Alice? George has seen the evil he has 
done, and like a brave soul endeavors to reiiair that evil. And if you had 



18 ADRIFT. 

the heart of a woman, you would try to assist your husband, and not wilt 
down here in this place. You encouraged him in the habits which led to 
this downfall, and now you should encourage him in his efforts to reform 
and to support his family. 

Mm R Encourage him in his habits! How have I done so, I would like 
to know ? 

Ida. By having wine at your evening parties, and on your table when 
your friends dined with you, and at your receptions on New Year's day. 

Mrs R. Well, George always wanted it on such occasions. 

Ida. You could have persuaded him i'-om doing so, for George was a 
loving husband, and would have done anything to jilease you. It was an 
easy thing to point out the consequences of such a practice, while his own 
good sense would have led him to see it, and your own influence would 
have caut-ed him to abandon it. But instead of doing this you even took 
•wine yourself on such occasions. It is true you never drank enough to 
•show the effects, yet your own example was an encouragement to your 
husband, whose temperament would not allow him to drink with your 
moderation. 

Mrs R. {sadly) It may be so. I never thought of it before. 

Ida. There's where the shoe pinches. Y<iu have continued in this 
thoughtless way, until you now suffer the consequences. Bear your own 
share of the blame, my dear cousin, and not hiy it all on your husband. 

3frs R. Oh, what shall I do ? (boia down upon the lounge and weeps, 

Phil. Laws, you needn't do nuffin, missus You liin jest stay right here 
an" Ole Jupe an' I'll work for ye. 

Ida. {sarcastically) That would be an admirable arrangement for a lazy 
person, or for one who has no spirit or womanhood in her nature. Do you 
-accept of such a proposal, Alice? 

Mrs R. {speaking amidst her sobs) I don't know what to do. 

Phil. No, she don't know what to do, poor darlin'. She nebber done no 
■work all her life, Miss Ida. 

Ida. Well the time has now come when she had better work than do 
nothing. Alice, you have been kind to me fince I lived with you, and now 
I intend to show my gratitude in your reverses. I am going to aid George 
in his edorts to reform and to support his family. Will his wife join in the 
strusrgle ? 

Mrs R. {rising from the lounge) I will, Ida. You shall not appeal to 
me in vain. 

Ida. There now you act like your own self, Alice. The womanhood has 
«roused. that I knew was in you. 

Mrs R. It should have aioused before, Ida. I am ashamed of myself, 
and am ready to aid in any scheme, which you devise. 

Ida. Well, I have taken two dresses to make, and want you to assist me, 
and we will share the profits together. I left them in the next roor.\, and 
you can be sewing on one of them, while I go to get some shirts to LMake 
for Mr. Benton. 

M/-S R. Ida, you are an angel I 

Phil. Yes, Miss ida'd be de bressedest kind ob an angel, if she hab on a 
•white dress an' two big wings. {i^iey f-xit severally, r. & l. Change td 



SCENE SECOND.—^ street in the suburbs, 1st grooves. 
Enter Dr. Lander, l. 

X>r L. "Well, the thing has come to a focus. George Renshaw's family 
lias been turned out of house and home, and are obliged to take up their 
temporary quarters with Old Jupe, because none of their acquaintances 
were charitable enough to give them shelter, As far as George is concerned 

pity him, but for his wife I have not one spark of compassion. Oh, bow 



ADRIFT. 19 

lucky that I camo here just in time to witness her downfall 1 And, if I 
C'luld have a chance to tell her what I did to aid it, my vengeance would 
be co'tiplote. But it will not be siife tor ino to stay any longer in town, for 
1 have been watched the pasi two days by a. couple of strangers, who ap- 
pear too much like detectives to make me feel contented nere. If I get on 
the cars in this town they will surely nab me, so I have engaged Tim 
O'Regan to drive me in a carriage to the next station, where I can take the 
train in spite of detective or police. How lucky it was that I let my trunks 
go on when I stoped here, so I have no baggage here but my sachel, and 
that can be got away without exciting suspicion. Ha, there comes the 
Irishman now ! 

Enter Tim 0' Legan, R. 

Tim. The carriage is waiting, sir! 

Dr L. Where is it? 

Ti7n. Jist the other side o' them ere tall bushes you see yonder. 

Dr L. IIow did you get away without exciting suspicion ? 

Tim. I told the boss I wanted to go to see my sick sister. And, by my 
soul, I told no lie. 

Dr L. Good for you, Tim. And did you get my sachel ? 

T««. I did, sir, and put it unitcr the seat, where no one could see it. 

Br L. You are a brick, Tim, and I will pay you well, when we get 
there. So, let us be going. 

Lander turns to go e., andjinda himself face to fact with Mat Sly, icho enters 
just at that moment, e. 

Mat. You are my prisoner 1 (putting his hand on Lander's shoulder. 

Dr L. Not yet I (drawing a pistol, presents it at 3fat Sly. 

Mat Sly hits the pistol, which goes off xnto the air. Then he draws a revolver 
and points it at Lander's head. 

Mat. Two can play at the same game. 
Enter 1st. Police Officer, e., grasps Lander's arm, points a revolver at him. 
1st Officer. So can three ! 

Enter 2d. Police Officer, l., loho seizes the other arm, and levels a revolver at 

Lander. 

2d Officer. So can four! 

Dr L. What does all this mean? 

Mat. Why, it simply means that, when an arch rogue, like Dr. Lander 
attempts to resist tlie ofScers of justice, he will find that they are prepared 
for him. 

Dr L. What do you arrest me for, I would like to know? 

Mat. You know well enough, or you would not have drawn a pistol, 
when I doclared yoti my prisoner. There is reason to believe that you 
were the riuglesde'- in a recent bank-robbery in St Louis. 

Dr L. I do not see how you can iniplicate me. Tlie papers state that 
the notorious Tom Poole was the ringleader in that robbery. 

Mat. And I have come to the conclusion, after watching you in St Louis 
and following you here, that Tom Poole is none other than Dr Lander. 

Dr L. (a.fide) Just what I suspected all the while, that this lellow was 
somr detective on my track. 

Mat. Bring him along, for you must be off with him on the next train. 

(Exit Mat Sly avd the Police Officers, with Dr Lander as a prisoner. 

Tim. Be jabers, an' if that wasn't done the natest 1 ever see anything 
done. If I ever rob a bank, I hope I'll have jist sich perlice officers to taka 
me, for they do it so nate an' so quick. But divil burn me, where is tha 



20 ADRIFT. 

five dollars the donther was going to give me ? Och, I'll hev to go an' se© 
my sick sister uovv widout gitting my pay fur it I {exit a. 



SCENE TEIIRD. — A street before Rcnshaio' s garden, seco7id grooves. 

Ida May rushes in i.., with a shriek. 

Ida. Help! Help! [.-iiuks upon the (jround, and covers her face with her 
hands) Oh, is there no one to protect me from this crazy man? 

Enter Mat Sly, l. 

Mnt. This crazy man will not hurt you. Don't be frightened, ma'am, 
I only want to talit with you. 

Idii. I don't want to talk with you, nor hear anything j'ou have to say. 

Mat. You may be gbul, that you heard what I have to say, before we 
get throuirh talking. 

Ida. Surely that voice sounds very familiar ! 

(an.fovei-s her face with a look of surprise, 

Mnt. And this face may look fiuuiliar, if you will allew )jie to disclose 
my real fentui-t-s lo you. 

Ida. 1 don'D want to see your face. Yoa look like a fright every time I 
have seen you. {covei-s herjace again with her hands. 

Mat, Well, then loolc at this handkerchief, Ida May, and see if you 
you know whose it is. (lakes handkerchief from h's pocket. 

Ida. How do you know that my name is Ida May? / 

Mat. If you will examine that handkerchief, you may guess how I came 
to know your name, {drops the handkerchief into her lap) Itliesinyour 
lap, Ida, so yoa can see it witbout yetting a vievv of the horrid old crazy 
man. 

Ida. (taking her hands from her eyes, she discovers the handkerchief) tl is 
my handkei chief! How came you by it? 

Mat, I will tell you, Ida May, it vuu will have the patience to listen. 
I Once loved a young lady, whom 1 thought lo be perfection. I loved her 
belter th.m myself, aye, belter than I did my God, and that was the reason 
he took her from me. I had the happiness to know that my affection was 
returned, and then earth became a paradise, for i wanted no'better hea.veu. 

Ida. Ha ! Did you love like thai? 

Mat. I did, Ida May, and even the remembrance of it is bisss. But I 
had one bad habit, whicli, liKe the forbidden fruit, cast me out of that par- 
adise. 

Ida. And what was that? 

Mat. I would lipple a little ever}'' day, and go off occasionally on a spree. 
When this came to Ida's knowledge, slie endeavored to win me from these 
habits, by fond persuasion and gentle admonition. 

Ida. Like the angel that a woman should be to the man she loves. 

Mat. She was an angel, Ida! She would have beiui my guardian angel, 
and led ine into a path of roses, if 1 had bei'n willing to follow her. But I 
was headstrong and persisted in my course, for I thought she w;.s meddling 
with what did not cone^ rn her. Then she told me lo consider our engage 
ment broken, for she would not run the risk of having a drunkard for her 
husband. 

Ida. Just as every young lady should do under such circumstances. 

Mat. This maddened uie so, that I grew more wilful, and drank harder 
than ev<^r. I would even got intoxicated in the day lime, and lie di-unk 
where every one could see me. One day I lay in a drunken sleep beside a 
saloon, where the sun shone fully into' my face. How long I lay there I 
know not, but when I awoke my face was covered by the handkerchief 
which now lies in your lap. I inquired if any one knew how it came there, 



ADRIFT. 21 

and was told that a young lady, who was passing by, took her handkerchief 
from her reticule, and spread it over my face. I examined the handker- 
chief, and saw upon the corner, Ida May.. Then I knew who had seen me 
lying there, and had covered my face wilh her own handkerchief, to shield 
it ironi the glare of the sun. 

Ida. Yes, I remember well the time. {lueeps. 

Mat. You weep, Ida May, hut yours are not the tears of regret, that 
mine were at this act of kindness in my darling Ida. It was like the part- 
ing deed of mercy to a willul sinner, before his guardian angel takes its 
final flight. And yet it seems to be a token of encouragement, that my 
guardian angel could be induced to stay her flight. So I resolved to see 
her, and swear in her presence nevermore to drink a dro]) of alcoholic liq- 
uors, if our engagement could be renewed. But when I went, ti/ see her, I 
found that she had suddenly left tov/n, and no one could tell whither she 
went 

Ila. She would not have gone had she known all this. 

Mat. I kejit her h0n<lkerchief as a parting gift, and placed it near my 
heart. There has it btin as a talisman to keep me Irom tne same evil hab- 
its Ironi which my guardian angel sought to reclaihi me when she was by 
my side. Though she had lefl me I vowed nevermore to drink a drop of 
iirdent spirits, and that handkerchief always i-eminded me of my pledge, 
whenever the appetite aroused within. I have not drank a drop since the 
day my guardian angel fled, and I shall abide by niy resolution, though 
she should never come a^^ain to be my guide. 

Ida. May heaven give you aid ! 
Mat iSii/ takes off' his hat, arid false whiskers and moustache, and holds them be- 
hind htm. 

Mat. I have told you where I got that handkerchief, Ida May, and now 
are you willing to see my face? 

Ida. {looks up) Matthew Sly ! But where {rising) What has be- 
come of the crazy man ? 

Mat. Here he is, Ida. (puts on his hat and false beard. 

Ma. 31a tliew, what does all this mean? 

Mai. Simply a disguise assumed to follow a rogue, who has been robbing 
<iur bank. 1 have su(!ceeded in his arrest, and now I am ready to doif my 
disguise, and appear in my real character. And I consider myself doubly 
rewarded in finding my runaway Ida. Then here Has been your hiding 
pace all this long while? The orphan nas not been without a home, though 
she tied from the one which I would have made her own. 

Ida. Yes, my cousin, Gejrge Renshaw, offered me a home with him as 
long as I would stay, and has treated me more like a sister than a depend- 
ent and needy relative. 

2Iat. Blessed soul ! He shall have his' reward, Ida ! 

Ida. Matthew, George can no longer give me a tiome ! He has bo- 
come- so dissipated, that his business has suffered. His house and store 
have been sold to pay his debts, and his family is turned adrift. 

Mat. And you are turned adrift to, Ida. Oh, let me lift you out of this 
iviint, and give you the comforts my riches can bestow ! Y'ou are one of the 
waifs sent adrift by your cousin's misfortunes, and I stretch out my hand 
to save it. (offers'his hand) Once more I offer you my hand. Will Ida 
May accept the gift ? 

Ida. (takes his hand) I do, Matthew! 

Mat. Then let us seal this compact by the marriage rite without delay. 

Mat. It would be well under the circumstances, Matthew, provided we 
leave town as soon as we are married. 

Mat. Certainlyl I intend that we shall leave on the first train going 
west after the ceremony is over. 

Ida. The first train going west will be fifteen minutes past seven this 
■evening. 



22 ADRIFT. ^ 

Mat. Well, that will give us sufficient time to have the knot tied, and 
for you to say good bye to your friends here, aud for me to make certain 
business arrangements, before the train arrives. 

Ida. But. we must not be nianied in this plight, Matthew, for neither of 
us have on the wedding garment. 

Mat. Oh no, Ida, not as we are now. You return to your boarding house 
and array yourself as you please for the oceasion. In half an hour I will 
call for you as Mr. Sly from St Louis, and not as the crazy man which the 
people here think me to be. Then we will proceed to the house of some 
clergyman, and my dear Ida shall no longer be adrift, no more a waif on 
the ocean of life. 

Ida. But, Matthew, my cousin George and his family — Oh, I cannot for- 
sake them in their afflictions, when they have been so kind to me in mine I 

Mat. I have thought of all that, Ida, and have devised a way to reward 
Eenshaw for his kindness to you. You will know it in due time aud be 
satisfied. Good bye till I call for you. (exit severally. 



SCENE FOURTH.— ^ rooTTi in Old Jupe's house as before. Phil lis is put- 
ting things in order about the room, and Ella, in her childish way, it, trying to 
assist. 

Phil. I must hab ebry ting put to rights, for dey'll be here from de wed- 
din'. Miss Ida said dey'd come right here soon as de weddin' was ober,, 
an' stay here till dey go off on de cars. Laws, who'd a thunk Miss Ida'd 
be married so soon, an' a rich gem man come from St Louis, an' to take her 
right awuy 'tore any body know'd it? 

Ella, (holding up a footniool) Where'll I put this ? 

Phil. Put it right down wfaare your muddei alius sets, chile. She'll 
want it when she comes back. 

Ella. Where has ma gone ? 

Phil. Stie's gone wid your par to see Miss Ida married to de gemman 
dat's come from St Louis. Dey'll be back soon. 

Enter Old Jupe, h. 

Jupe. De weddin' is ober, ole woman, an' Miss Ida's married. 

Phil. Dey is married den fur shuah ? 

Jupe. Shuah's you an' I is married, honey duck. 

Phil. Laws, how berry lubbin you is all a sudden, Ole Jupe. One ud 
link you wanted to be married agin yourself. 

Jupe, Hurry up fast as you can, ole woman, an don't stan dar talkin'. 
De weddiners'll be here 'fore you'll git tuings put to rights. 

Phil. Don't you see I'se hurryin' fast as 1 can ? An' don't you see who's 
helpin'me? {points to Ella and laughs.. 

Jupe. Yes, de darlin' chile, she's helpin' ole Phillis put things to rights. 

Old Jupe snatches up Ella and ki.ises her, then sets her down again upon the 
floor. Ella rubs the check, which he kissed, with her sleeve. 

Phil. Laws, ef do chile aint tryin' to rub de brack off where you kissed 
her. Dat's a ooiiijilerment to you, ole nigger. Yah, yah, yah I De brack 
neber comes off dat nigger's niouf, chile, it's dyed in de skin. 

{Ella wets her fingers in her mouth, and rubs her cheek with them. 

Jupe. Look a dar, ole woman, {pointing to Ella) See what de chile's 
doin' now. She's 'termined to git de brack offwhardar aint none. Yah, 
yah, yah ! 

Phil. Nebber mind, honey. Ye can't git off what isn't on. Yah, yah, 
yah ! 

Ella. Oh, there comes ma aud Miss May! 



ADRIFT. 23 

Enter Mrs. lienshaw and Ida May, l. 

Mrs. H. Here's niy Ella. Has s-he been a good girl, PhilHs, since I have 
heen gone ? 

Phi/. Laws, she's been de bestist kind ob a girl, missus. She staid in 
lie bouse all de time, and help me put de tings to rights, smart as any body. 

Ji^lla. Oh, Mifs May has come too! I am so glad. {running to Ida. 

Phil. I s'poses she isn't Miss May no longer, chile. 

Mrs. R. No, Ella, she is not Miss May now, but she is Mrs. Sly. 

Ella. Well, she is just as good anyhow. 

Ida. Yes, I shall always be the same to you, Ella. {kisses Ella. 

Jupc. Here comes massa fieorge wid dat Mr. Sly, talkin' togedder as ef 
dey didn't see nobody. 

Mrs. R. Tes, George and Mr. Sly became so deeply engaged in conver- 
sation, that we came on ahead, and left them to take tiieirown time to get 
here. 

Enter George Ren.Hhaw and Mat Sly, l., as if in clo.%e conversation. Mat Sly- 
does not wear his disguise, but is nealli/ dressed. 

Ren. I shall never drink another drop of ardent spirits, Mr. Sly. Al- 
ready have 1 drank the price of a store and a fine house, and I think that 
ought to satisfy one man's appetite. As far as I am concerned, I deserve 
the consequences of my folly, but the dear ones, who are dependent on me — 

{falters and weeps. 

Mat. I trust these are the tears of true repentance, and that you will 
hold fast to this determination. 

Ren. 1 shall try, sir, God being my helper. In Him is my trust. 

Mat. If such is your trust, you cannot fail. 

Jupe. {aside) Dem ia de sentiments of dis nigger perzactly. 

Enter Tim 0' Regan, l., loith a long package, he runs against Old Jupe. 

Phil. What you 'bout dar, you keerless Irisher? Do you want to kill Ole 
Jupe? 

Jupe. Who's dat run aboard dis nigger? {rubbing himself. 

Tim. Be gorra, I didn't know there was any nagur in my way. 

Jupe. What d'ye want to 'trude on a weddin' party for widout an in- 
vitation ? 

Tini. I come to bring this to that gintleraon. {nodding to Mai Sly, 

Mat. Take the package, Jupe, and after we are gone, you can examine 
it at your leisure. It is a present to you and Phillis. 

Jupe. What dat for? {takes package from 0' Regan, who exit, h. 

Mat, For giving shelter to the Rcnahaw's, when they were turned adrift. 

Jupe, Gor a mighty, I — I {chokes with emotion) Dis nigger can't say 

nuffin. 

Mat. And to you, Mr. Renshaw, I 6m greatly indebted for giving that 
dear girl a home, {points to Ida) when my own follj' sent her adrift. In 
our bank we have a vacant oifice, which you shall fill, aa long as you abide 
by the resolution just declared. 

Ren. Thnnk you, my dear sir! {shakes Mat's hand) If industry and 
honesty will secure the position, intemperance Bhall never again send my 
dear ones adrift. 

Mat. {to the audience) And to you, we tender our thanks for your kind 
attention, and trust you will learn a lesson from the follies, which turn bo 
many ADRIFT. 

« 
L. OldJupb. Phillis. Mat Slt. Ida. May. Mb. R. Mrs. 3. b. 

CURTAIN. 



%^ OQ£)t)gt3Ot)Qt)Dt)0t!Q'D-Q^£)t)£)ti0rOt)2)O0t)QL)DDQt)D^Q jj;^ 
^ AMES' STArVl>ARO A?^lI>Mli^'OI£ I>RA^ia.. f 

^ 75. ADRIFT. A Temperance Drama, in three acts, by Chas. W. Babcock, ^ 

^? M. D. Six male, four female characters. Good characters for leadin;^ man, fP 

Q^ villnin, comedy, juvenile, a capital negr®, and jolly Irishman. Al.so leading la- (© 

^ dy, little girl, juvenile lady, and old negress. A deep plot, characters well ^ 

(J) f)r iwn and language pure. Easilv produced. Scenery simple cud costumes (1) 

modern. Time of perfermance, one hour and a half. " (ft 

76. HOW HE DID IT. A comic Drama in one act, by John Parry, three $ 
male, two female charactsrs. An amusing scene from real life. A plot is laid T 
to Cure a husband, who having lost a first wife whom lie domineered over, tries ^ 
to treat a second one in like manner. A splendid comedian's part. Time about W 
thirty minutes. Costumes modern. (3 

77. JOES VISIT. Ah Ethiopean burksius on the Kough Diamond, two k 
male, one female characters. Easily produced and very laughable. Can also be ;P 
played white. Time twenty minutes. Costumes extravagant negro. '^ 

7S. AN A WFUL CRIMINAL. A Farce in one act, by J. Palgrave Simpson, jff) 

three male, three female characters. Plot excellent and its development very ^ 

amusing. The oftener produced the better it is liked — is in one scene and easily /,k 

put upon the stage. Costumes simple. Time thirty-five minutes. ^ 

(p 70. THE SPY OF ATLANTA. A Grand Military Allegory 'in six acts, by (t) 

(f)) A. D. Ames and C. G. Hartley, fourteen male, three females. This play is found- (J) 
(J 3 ed on incidents which occured during the war of the Rebellion — it introduces (^ 
C^ Ohio's brave and gallant McPlierson — the manner of his capture and death. It f« 
,< J abounds witii beautiful tableaux, drills, marches, battle scenes. ,\ndersouville, (^ 
Q etc., and is pronounced by the pre.ss and public, the most sui-cessiul military X. 
play ever produced. G. A. R. Posts, Military Companies am! otlicjr organiza- 
tions, who may wish something which will draw, should produce it. It may 
not be out of place to add that this play with the incidents of the d.-ftth of Mc- 
Pher.son, was written with the consent of the General's brother, R. Bjj|McPher- 
son, since dead, who fully approved of it. Price 25 cents per copy. 

80. AL.iRMINGLY SUSPICIOUS. ACom3lietta in one act, byr-J- Pal- 
grave Simpson, four male, three females. This play is easily arranged, iwd the 
^ plot excellent. Some things are "Alarmingly Suspicious" however, anOit will 
,i please an audience. Time forty-five minutes. . ■' ,'• 

% 81. OLD PHIL'S BIRTHDAY. A serio-comic Drama in two actsirby J. 

^) P. Wooler, five male, two females. Scenery easily arranged. Costumes niAdern. 

( i) One of the purest and most attractive plays ever published. The charctv)iP of 
"Old Pliil" cannot be excelled, and the balance are every one good. Tim4 sne 
hour and forty-five ainutas. y^, 

82. KILLING TIME. A Farce in one act, one male, one female. Scentia 
< l) drawing room. Costumes modern. A woman held captive at home by the ra^%i 
i{3 seeks to "kill time." How she does it is told by this farce. Time about thirty i^ 
(ji) minutes. . 'r Ci) 

83. OUT ON THE WORLD. A Drama in three acts, five males, four fe-jj ^ 
males. Scenery not difficult. Modern costumes. A thrilling picture of love, ' ' *> 

^ fidelity and devotion. Excellent leading characters and Irish comedy, both 
( j) male and female. Can be produced on any stage. Time two hours. An Amer- 
^ ) ican Drama. 

<^ 84. CHEEK WILL WIN. A Farce for three male characters, by W; E. 

<ip Suter. Costumes modern. Scene plain apartment. It is said that nothing will ( 
Q carrv a man through the world as well as plenty of "cheek." A striking ex- cji; 
^ ) ample is given in this farce. It will please all. Time thirty minutes. 6 \ f 

^ 85. THE OUTCASTS WIFE. A domestic Drama in three acts, by Colin c j) 

H. Hazlewood, twelve males, three females. Costumes modern. A thrilling \ j 
play of the blood and thunder order, abounding in exciting scenes, and hair- ^p 
breadth escapes. Is a favorite wherever produced, and has leading man, old 
man, juvenile and comedy characters. The "wife" is a grand one for leading 
lady, and there is a good comedy. Time one hour and forty-five minutes. 
86. BLACK VS WHITE OR THE NIGGER AND YANKEE. A Farce (}) 
(P in one act, by Geo. S. Vautrot, four miles, two females. Simple scenery. Mod- 
( Ji ern costumes. In this farce is combined the Ethiopean and Yankee, both 
characters being very funny, as well as other excellent parts. Time of perform- 
ance, thirty-five minutes. 



% 



<4i) 



s 



'^ 



AMES' SERIES OF 

8TANDARDJMN0R DRAMA. 

FIFTEEX OFXT^ E:1CIL 

p^ A Full Dpseriviiive Catalogue froe to any one. "fe^ 



A Des])erate Gaine 

A (;» Vat li 

An Unhappy Pair 

A Tickci, -.1 Lefi.-e 

A Komantic Attachment 

A I >••'>• \\ r\\ S]_)eiit 

A Pet of the Public 

AiTiih DeBiiugli 

An Unwelcome Return 

Alarminiily iSuspiciuus 

A Lile's Kevenge 

At Last 

Adrift 

An Awful r''iminhl 

Bri2;aui.lti nf Calabria 

Better Ilali 

Captain S'liitii 

(.'<jmin,i; 'an 

L)id I D ini it 

Domesiic Felicity 

l)er T\\ Sub])rise^ 

Drive I' o the Wall 

Deuct. , in Him 

False rieml 

Felt' Lane to Gravosend 

Giv .vlo Mv Wiie 

lh> He Did it 

H. s on F^locution 

1' idy Andy 

^' w .Stout You're (ietting 
nry Oi'anden 
an?.", the butch J. P. 
iamlft 

iluutei- of the Alps ( Law 

JLiw \i, 'ranie Your JMolher-iii- 

1m thf WiMug Bux 

•''I 'ill Smiiii 

J'lti's N'isir 

La.dy And ley's Secret 

Lad/ of Lv,",u.> 

J.if.-'s I!,, v;.nuv 

.Mr. and .Mrs. Pnnule 

My Jleart'n in ihc llio^hlauds 

:My Wifr'.s Relations 

Man and AVito 

M..ther's F,..d 

-Mistletoe I^,,u-ll 

-Miller of Derwent Water 



Xot So Bad After All 

Not as Deaf ai He tjeerns 

On the sly 

Obedience 

Out in tne Streets 

Paddy Miles' Boy 

P(iachei''s Doom 

Painter of Ghent 

R.iciielien 

Rock Allen the Orphan 

Rescued 

Spy of -\tlanta, "25 cts. 

Stocks Up Stocks Down 

S|)ort Willi a Si)ortsmau 

Scliiia I'.p.-i 

Somebody's Nobody 

Saved 

Sh;un Professor 

'J he Spy of Atlanta, 25 cts. 

The Lady of Lyons 

The Studio 

The Vow of the Ornani 

The Better Half 

The Brigands of Calabria 

The Serf 

The Po.icher's Doom 

The Hunter of the Alps 

Thirty-Tiiree Next Birthday 

The Painter of Ghent 

The Mistletoe Bough 

The Miller ot Derwent Water 

The Bewitched Closet 

That .Mvsterious Bundle 

The Two T. J-s. 

Ten Nights in a Bar-R.om 

Three Glasses a I'ay 

That Boy Sam 

The J''alse Friend 

The Sham Pro essor 

The lie ward of Crime 

Tlie ])eui'e is lu 11 im 

Tbe Comin'^- Alan 

\'ow of I iie Ornani 

\V hen Women VVi'ep 

Won at Last 

A\<ioing Under Diflicullies 

Wrecked 

Which AVill He Marrv 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



016 102 179 9 



1. D. AMES, PUBLISHHR, CLYDE, 0. 



OVR BVSIXESS-WHAT TE DO. 

I'LAYS. AVo sell ovrrything in the lino of flrnnms and faroos, nnd cnll 
Ih.j attc'iiiiiii] of f)nr inumTon* natrons to our ()\v-a lir't. We think it ciii- 
ln'aces jiliiy vvliich will snit either profc.-sional or iiinriteur C'>ni])<ii)it's. It 
]io\vevf )■ you need ponielhing, jmblislied elsewhere, do noi hesihiie to send 
113 your oi-ders — our slock is very large, awd Ave till promptly.- Stocks of 
every ])iil,>lisher on hand. 

LETTERS OF I2TQUIIiT cinsworcd promptly, and we solieit eorrcspond- 
enee. If tiie business upon which you write concerns yon .'ilone, enelos^c a 
M cenl Rialnij) for reply. /\in:ileurs wlio are puzzled upon any qvieslioi.f. 
lelativo to the slai;e will be answered explicitly, and to the best of our abil- 
ity. 

'j^lAXU.iCnTPT PLA TS. riu-ties who have IMss. to dispose of shor.ld 
Avi-ite to us. We will jniblish whatever may be meriloiious, on terms which 
■wiil Ije satisfactory. 

SIJEEi' MUSIC. Orders for sheet music, or music books will bo re- 
ceived and filled as promptly as possible. 

r^4 rJZ,OCf'i?S will be sent free to any address. Send a postal card, 
\vith yourad'lress, an(i the catalogue will be sent by the next mail. 

HOW 7'0 OIiDER. It would perhaps seem to every one that any di- 
rections as lo 'how lo order' i>lays was entirely sujjerfluous; but not so. 
We hav(! many instances, and remember to have been severely censured by 
]iarties,Bonie if whom t;iiled to sign their name to their ord.'r, or iailed to 
M'rite the sttde, etc. In the lirst ]'lace, begin your order witii liic name o! 
your post oliiee, coiiniy and st.ite. If you order from our list, it is not luc- 
ossary to designate, only by giving the name olthe y\fy ; but if from the 
lists of other p'lblishfrs, state the publishers name, if you know it. Do 
iiot write your lotli-is of inquiry <ui tlie same sheet with your orders, and 
make the order a/«v/;/.s as brief as possilde. When conipleieii do not foil io 
.'^ii/n ;i/onr ji'iMc roy jilani/i/.. Attention to these rules will M;-!:r. \hr I'iiiiii; 
of your orders, liy leturn mail. I'ostage stamps of the d i~^ 

2 and '.i cents, will be taken in any amount less thar. $3.i» 

TLAYS TO SVIT COMPANIES. Amateur comjianies f.eqiuntly have 
irouble in ]u-oenriug riays well adapted to their wants, fref|Uenlly ordering 
jierhaps live dollar's worth in sinade co])ies, before anything suitable can 
l>e found. All this eau b(ulone away with. Our catalogue embraces plavj 
fuilalilo for any and all companies, .'tndif o\ir friends will write to us, slate- 
itii,' the riM|uircnn'nis cd their coinpanies, there need l>e no troubh^, in this 
Hue at L'nsl. it' a tiMuperance Pociely wants plays, we have something for 
ihcni. If a company wants SDinething wliieh is very funny, we can suit 
iheni. In tict. we have dramas, farces, traiffidies .oiul comedies which vitl 
sijit you. Enclose ]J cents JHM- Copy, for as many copies as you may need, 
aiid wo guarantee to suit you, if you will state the size of your comjiany, 
and whetli r best iKiopteci to the serious or funny. Give us n trial at least. 
■MAnXKSIUM TAIILEA U LIGHTS. There is scarcely a i)erson ivho 
lins not been annoyed by the smoking of Colored tires, which are so often 
used on taldeaux, and whole scenes in dramas liave Veen ruined Ijv the 
(■ijughing and noise always attendant on their use. AVe earnestly reeom- 
jiKMiii the use of the Magnesiiim lights. They can be ignited with a common 
niatidi, and burn with wonderful l>rilliancy. There is no danger in their use; 
t ley make no smoke and are cheap. I'riee, 25 cents each, by mail, jiost 
paid. Those who do not know how to burn them, will bo inslructe<l by 
•addressing the publisher. 



